


Travels Through Westeros

by MyOwnSuperintendent



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Ficlet Collection, Sexual Content, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-01
Updated: 2015-02-01
Packaged: 2018-03-09 23:04:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3267647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyOwnSuperintendent/pseuds/MyOwnSuperintendent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of short fics written while traveling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Aftermath (Starks)

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own A Song of Ice and Fire or anything related to it. Hope you enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the war, Catelyn tries to help her children heal. AU set after A Clash of Kings.

 

Catelyn doesn’t know, now, how she expected things to end. It was certainly dramatic enough, if that was what she was looking for. With a host of kings fighting in Westeros, no one expected the arrival of a queen, a young girl—well, not so young, Catelyn supposes, Robb’s age—not to mention dragons and horselords and who knows what else, so that certainly added some excitement to the proceedings. And in some ways, this ending was as good as she could have hoped, things being what they are—she still has Robb, and they are sending Sansa back to her. No one knows what’s become of Arya, though, and Catelyn can only hope. And think. The war is over now, but she does not think that things are going to be easy.

She can tell that Robb shares her worries. He is a king no longer, her eldest son, but he is still Lord of the North, and when he is not consulting with his lords bannermen, he is pacing about the halls of Riverrun. He is nervous for what the future holds, but she thinks that he has led well and will continue to do so. She tells him this one night, as they sit together after supper.

He smiles briefly, but then he says, “Mother…I…do you think…well, some think…should I have held out for more?”

And he is not a lord to her now; he is her son, the oldest of her children but still her little boy for all that. While she is wary of guiding his actions too much, right now he needs her to reassure him. “Robb, by stopping when you did you saved more people from being killed. That was very noble.” She embraces him. “Your father would be so proud.”

Robb beams at that, and it is true, she knows. She wishes Ned were here to see. It is not the ending she wanted without Ned.

 

She is still waiting for her older daughter when she passes the gate one day and hears the captain of Riverrun’s guard arguing with two scrawny lads.

“You think the Lady Catelyn had time to talk to every ragamuffin who shows up here?” he asks. “Be on your way, boys.”

“We _need_ to see her,” one of them insists, “and I’m not a _boy_!”

Catelyn whips around. She knows that voice; she would know it anywhere. The smaller of the two children has short-cut hair and she is absolutely filthy and that is Ned’s face on her and she couldn’t be anyone else but Arya. “Arya!” she cries.

Her daughter looks up. “Mother!” she shouts, and she comes running straight at Catelyn, pelting into her. Catelyn is almost crying, but Arya is talking a mile a minute. “Mother…we’ve been trying to get here for ages…but we had to hide…and follow the moss…and I didn’t even want to stop but Gendry said we had to if we were going to stay awake…oh, this is Gendry.”

She gestures at the tall boy, who bows and murmurs, “My lady.”

Catelyn smiles at him, still hugging Arya, who is still talking. “Gendry is my friend…and he’s a blacksmith…can he make swords for Robb? Can I see Robb?”

“Of course you can see Robb,” Catelyn says. “And then you need to tell me where you’ve been and to have a bath. Not necessarily in that order.”

“I don’t need a bath!” Arya protests, even though she is dirt from head to toe, and Catelyn lets herself laugh.

 

Sansa arrives four days later. If the grubby little girl in boy’s garb couldn’t have been anyone but Arya, it is hard to believe that this tall lady is really her Sansa. But she too cries out “Mother!” and throws herself into Catelyn’s outstretched arms. “Mother, I missed you so much.” And then she begins to weep. “I was so scared…”

Catelyn holds her close, stroking her hair and hating anyone who made her scared for even half a moment. “Shh…shh, sweetling…it’s all right now…you’re here with me now…you’re safe…no one is going to hurt you…weep if you need to…I’m here.”

Unlike Arya, Sansa actually asks if she may take a warm bath. She clings to Catelyn’s hand as they go upstairs, and Catelyn stays with her, almost unwilling to let Sansa out of her sight. When Sansa undresses for the bath, Catelyn sees marks on her legs. “What happened?” she asks as Sansa lowers herself into the tub.

“Joffrey…Joffrey had his Kingsguard beat me,” Sansa says. “He was angry about Robb winning battles, so he had them do it…and they…and they tore my dress off too…everyone could see…I was so ashamed…” She is crying again now, and Catelyn kneels beside the tub, taking Sansa’s hand in her own and squeezing it. For half a heartbeat she wishes that the boy hadn’t already been killed; in this moment, she can think of little that would give her more pleasure than to tear him apart with her own bare hands.

“You have nothing to be ashamed of,” she says. “The ones who should have been ashamed were that foul boy and those so-called knights. My poor Sansa…you’ve been very, very brave…”

“He had them hit me whenever he was angry,” Sansa sobs, burying her face in Catelyn’s shoulder.

She and Robb should have done more, Catelyn thinks: done everything they could to trade for Sansa, to spare her this. “I’m so sorry, Sansa,” she says. “You’re safe now. They’ll never touch you again, my brave girl.”

“I’m _not_ brave!” Sansa says. “I was scared all the time…I kept thinking about when I was going to have to marry him and how he’d still have them beat me and then I’d have to bed him too…and I was just so scared…”

“Being scared doesn’t mean you’re not brave,” Catelyn says, remembering something that Ned used to say. “And Sansa, I am so sorry that we betrothed you to him. We will find you someone much better, I swear it.”

“And they said I’d have to marry him when I flowered and so when I did I tried to hide it but they found out and the queen was so cruel about it…she said I was a little fool and I’d have to marry Joffrey whether I liked it or not…”

Catelyn had no mother to help her through her own flowering; she hoped not to leave her daughters in the same predicament. It is just another thing that she was not able to do, another way that she didn’t manage to protect her children. “You’ve flowered, Sansa?” When Sansa nods, she kisses her forehead gently. “That’s very special, sweetling. You’ve become a woman.” She can see that Sansa is trying to smile at her but that the tears are too strong, so she kisses her and murmurs once again, “You’re safe.”

Sansa manages to finish bathing and to put on her sleeping shift. She continues to weep, and Catelyn simply holds her close again, reminding her over and over that she is safe and brave and with her family again.

“I know…I know it’s childish,” Sansa says at last, sitting on Catelyn’s bed and wiping her eyes, “but could I stay here with you? Just for tonight?”

Catelyn smiles at her and says, “Of course you can.”

Perhaps tired out by her tears, Sansa falls asleep quickly, and Catelyn soon follows. When she is awoken in the night by her daughter’s sobs, it is the work of a moment to hug her, to whisper, “It was only a dream, Sansa…I’m here.”

“They were chasing me,” Sansa wails.

“They will never hurt you again,” Catelyn promises.

 

Her Robb needs guidance and reassurance, but Catelyn is there. He needs her to advise him without seeming to tell him what to do, and she can do that. He needs her to let him know that she approves of his choices and at the same time to slowly back away and let him do things on his own, and she works to strike this balance. It seems to be working; to her eyes, Robb grows more assured every day. She begins to see Ned in him more often than not, and she aches with pride and sorrow.

Her sunny, sweet Sansa has grown frightened, but Catelyn is there. If Sansa needs to tell her one hundred times of how she was treated in King’s Landing, of Joffrey’s torments and Cersei’s sneers, she will listen all one hundred times. If Sansa needs to cry, Catelyn will be there to comfort and reassure her, to tell her over and over again that she is safe with those who love her. And she thinks it is working. While it is a slow process, Sansa is growing happier; she is having fewer nightmares and crying less as the weeks wear on.

It takes a while for the problems to begin to show with Arya.

When Arya first returned to her, Catelyn asked where she’d been, and Arya told her. She’d clearly been frightened, but she didn’t cry like Sansa did, and Catelyn’s words of reassurance seemed to comfort her easily. In the following weeks, she was boisterous, running about in wild spirits with the boy Gendry. But now…now she broods, seeming to take no interest in anything, even their plans for rebuilding Winterfell. She is having nightmares too; one night, thinking that she hears Sansa cry out, Catelyn goes into her girls’ room to find Arya awake instead. “It was just a stupid dream,” Arya says when Catelyn asks what’s wrong. “I’m fine.” She knows that there is something Arya isn’t telling her.

Not knowing what is troubling Arya is worse than knowing what is troubling Sansa. Increasingly horrible ideas chase each other through Catelyn’s head. Was it torture? Are the stories she told about seeing those foul things done to others actually about herself? Was it rape? The though makes Catelyn want to be sick—Arya is ten years old—and yet she can’t deny that there are men who would have no scruples.

When she sees Arya’s friend in the courtyard one day, she calls out, “Gendry!”

The boy turns. “Yes, my lady?”

“Did…did anything happen to Arya? Anything that she hasn’t said?”

“I don’t know, my lady.” She suspects that he knows something that he isn’t saying; perhaps Arya has asked him to keep a secret for her; perhaps he has made a promise. Catelyn couldn’t care less about any promises, though. Right now, she has got to know.

“Was she tortured, Gendry? Or did some man—?” She can’t even get the words out.

Fortunately, Gendry seems to understand. “Oh, no, my lady. Nothing like that.”

“Thank you,” she says. In one way, she is reassured; in others, she is more worried than ever. She doesn’t know quite how to approach this. She and Arya have never talked as she and Sansa do: Arya was always closer to Ned. Thinking of this, Catelyn believes that she knows the root of the trouble. She is surprised at herself for not thinking of it before, when the same feelings have kept her awake nights often enough.

She finds Arya sitting in her room, staring out the window. “What’s wrong, Arya?” she asks.

“Nothing.” Arya doesn’t even look at her.

Catelyn takes a seat beside her. “Is this about your father?”

“No,” Arya snaps.

“It’s perfectly all right to still be sad, Arya. I am too, you know. I miss him every day. That’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I’m not ashamed,” Arya mutters.

“Are you angry with him?” Catelyn asks. “There’s nothing wrong with that either. I’ve felt like that.” Why did you have to be so honorable, Ned? she sometimes asks. Why couldn’t you have schemed for once in your life, when you were up against the Lannisters of all people, when your honor was going to cost you your head, when you had five babes and a wife who needed you? She is furious sometimes, even though she knows that if he hadn’t been honorable he wouldn’t have been her Ned and that in the end it made no difference for keeping one’s head whether one was honorable or scheming, whether one was Ned Stark or Cersei Lannister. Since hearing about the woman’s execution, she’s imagined the scene many times—those long blonde locks hacked off to ease the axeman’s work—and she can’t deny that it gives her a certain satisfaction. It would be a bigger lie, though, to claim that it gives her real comfort; Ned is still gone.

Arya does not respond to her question, so Catelyn presses on. “It’s really all right if you’re angry. I understand, and I’m sure he would too. He loved you very much.” Arya is still silent. “He would be proud of you for being so brave.” Maybe that is what Arya needs to hear, she thinks.

Instead of being a comfort, her words are like the spark that starts a fire. Arya whips around. “No, he wouldn’t. He would _hate_ me!”

Catelyn is taken aback. “Arya, what are you talking about?”

“He would hate me,” Arya insists, a quiver in her voice. “And you would too if you knew.”

Now Catelyn is frightened again; it makes her next words come out harshly, even as she tries to be gentle. “Arya Stark. There is nothing in the world that could make me hate you. I’m your mother. Now tell me what is wrong.”

“I…I killed some men!” Arya blurts out, and then she bursts into tears.

None of the scenarios Catelyn imagined were anything like this. “Arya, what do you mean? Who? How?”

“With Needle,” Arya sobs. “Well, some of them…I don’t even know their names…the first one was a stableboy in King’s Landing…and then Ser Amory’s men…and then the guard at Harrenhal…and there were all the men with the soup…and Jaqen H’ghar said I could have three names…”

Much of this is Old Valyrian to Catelyn. “What needle? What soup? Who is Jaqen H’ghar?”

“Needle was my sword,” Arya says. “Jon gave it to me before we left. And then Father let me have lessons in King’s Landing. Syrio taught me how to use it.” Her sobs redouble. “That was the last time things were good.”

Catelyn hardly understands the events any better from these words, but she understands well enough how upset her daughter is feeling. She gathers Arya into her lap like she is a babe again, seeing yet another mark of Arya’s distress in the fact that she does not resist. “Why don’t you start from the beginning,” she says, “and tell me how it happened?”

And Arya tells. Catelyn knows that if this were any other child she would be horrified by her actions, and she cannot deny that there is a part of her that still is. But whatever she may have done, this is her Arya, and she needs Catelyn to tell her that things are going to be all right, and Catelyn knows that she did not enjoy killing, that she is the furthest thing from happy about what she has done. And so when Arya cries that she is a monster, Catelyn is able to tell her gently that she is not.

“Yes, I am!” Arya insists, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. “I did it so easily…and Father always said that killing wasn’t supposed to be easy…”

“If it was easy for you, Arya, you wouldn’t be crying now.”

“I’m a terrible person,” Arya sobs again.

“You are not a terrible person,” Catelyn says firmly. “You’ve done some bad things, yes, but you’re not a terrible person. You were scared and alone and I know you’ll never do it again.” She hands Arya a handkerchief. “Use this, sweetling. I still love you. And your father would too.”

“Really?” Arya sniffles.

“I promise,” Catelyn says.

Arya wipes her eyes. “You won’t tell the others?” she asks.

“Not if you don’t want,” Catelyn says.

Now that they have talked about it, Catelyn hopes that Arya will take an interest in things again. Arya still broods, though, and Catelyn knows that she is still thinking about the men she killed. What she doesn’t know is how to help her. Arya isn’t like Sansa; she rejects Catelyn’s offers to talk further, and Catelyn isn’t even sure that she is the right person for Arya to talk to. Ned would have been better at this, she thinks; Ned knew about killing. He probably would have known what would help Arya. She wants him with her more than ever, wishing that he could give her an idea.

It is someone quite different who ends up giving Catelyn the idea, and she does it merely by arriving back at Riverrun, finally, and by kneeling before Catelyn. “My lady.”

“Brienne!” Catelyn smiles. While the two of them have communicated by raven, they have not seen each other since Brienne left Riverrun to exchange Jaime Lannister for Sansa and Arya, a plan that has of course since been complicated by any number of events. Catelyn has missed this loyal woman, and she is very glad to see her again.

In the middle of their conversation, Catelyn hears a noise; she looks up to see Arya walking along the corridor. She remembers, suddenly, what Arya told her about learning to use a sword, about this being the last time that things were good. There is a part of her that does not like the idea that comes into her head, that realizes, ruefully, that she would be setting herself back a good deal in her attempts to teach Arya anything. But the rest of her looks at Arya, at her downcast face and her slow walk, and she calls, “Arya! Come here.” Arya comes into the room. “Arya, I’d like you to meet Brienne of Tarth. Brienne, my daughter Arya.”

“My lady,” Brienne says.

“Are you a real knight?” Arya demands, staring wide-eyed at Brienne and her armor.

Brienne sounds like she’s not sure why Arya wants to know as she answers, “I…in a way, yes, my lady.”

“How did you get to be a knight?” Arya asks. “How old were you when you started training? Did people say that you couldn’t be one?”

Catelyn smiles and stands up. “It seems like you two have much to talk about.”

Later that afternoon, Brienne comes to her and says, “My lady, your daughter asked…asked if I would spar with her. I told her that I wasn’t sure that you would wish her to…but she was very insistent and I…”

This sounds very much like the Arya from before all this happened, the little girl Catelyn remembers from Winterfell. Once she might have been exasperated, but now she suddenly feels that she must be hilarious and so replies calmly, while sorting embroidery threads, “Really? That doesn’t sound like Sansa.”

The joke is lost on Brienne, who says seriously, “No, my lady, the lady Arya. What should I do?”

“Why, spar with her,” says Catelyn. “Go to the armory; they should be able to find something for Arya.”

Arya comes bouncing inside at the end of the day. “She’s filthy, Mother,” Sansa says, in the tone of one who has borne more than could reasonably be expected of any person.

There is a part of Catelyn that agrees with her. But Arya is beaming as well as filthy, so she simply says, “I see, Sansa. What color thread should we use for the border?”

 

Winterfell has been made habitable again, and they move in. Catelyn hoped, foolishly, that things would return to the way they once were. They do not. Winterfell is rebuilt enough to live in, yes, but it still needs much work; it doesn’t yet feel strong. And so many people are missing.

Almost all of the servants are gone, and the new people are nice but not familiar. Catelyn doesn’t know on whom she can rely. And the servants are far from the most important missing people. She will never see Bran and Rickon again, her little boys, her last two babes. It hurts even more now that she is here in the place where they all lived together. And it becomes still worse when she lets herself dwell on how they were truly her last babes, how she will never bear another. She recalls a day when they were still at Riverrun; they were talking of alliances, and Edmure remarked, “You’re not too old to marry again, Cat.”

“Don’t you ever say anything like that to me again,” she snapped, and she left the room before he could see her sudden angry tears. She shouldn’t have been so furious; it is foolish to say that she could never love another man when she knows as well as anyone how unexpectedly love can come. But in her heart she cannot imagine being with any man but Ned. She still has trouble realizing that she is without him. It has been a long time since she was in Winterfell, but she is sure that her bedchamber was never this cold before; sometimes she feels like she is the one in the crypts. Sometimes she dreams that he holds her and wakes to wrap herself more tightly in the covers; sometimes she dreams that he does more than hold her and wakes to slide her own hands beneath her shift. It is never enough. She does not know that it ever will be.

 

She is sitting by the window one day when she hears Arya shout from the yard, “It’s Hodor!”

Surprised, Catelyn looks out. Arya is certainly right, though: there is no mistaking that figure. He is accompanied by a boy and a girl, and on his back he bears—

“ _Bran_!” Arya shouts.

Catelyn is glad that she has never been the fainting sort. She jumps to her feet and fairly runs downstairs and into the yard and up to her son. “Bran! Oh gods, Bran. Bran, how…we thought you were dead…I never got to tell you goodbye…They said Theon had killed you…” And she squeezes his hands.

“We thought we would be safest if we pretended,” Bran says soberly. “We…I always wanted to come back though.” She can hear his voice shake, but he seems to be trying to hide it. “Mother, this is Meera and Jojen.” He gestures to the girl and the boy.

The rest of the day is something of a blur. She hugs Bran again and again, marvels at how much older he looks, has him tell her everything that’s happened, tells him over and over again how much she loves and has missed him. At moments she thinks that she needs this more than he does; she’s the one who believed him dead, after all, and he stays calm through it all, as he tells her of three-eyed crows and other things that she can’t pretend to understand. And then he leans into her hugs, and she squeezes him to her as tightly as she can, knowing that however calm and brave her boy is trying to be, this is bringing comfort to both of them. It has not been easy for any of them. It cannot have been easy for him.

But she has another one of her babes back. That is what is important. And he tells her that Rickon is alive too. That gives her hope.

 

When Rickon returns, Catelyn knows that she should be thrilled, and she is, mostly. He is well in mind and body; he has not been beaten or forced to kill or tasked with being a ruler. But he barely remembers her. She thanks the woman Osha for taking such good care of him when all that she wants to do is to shout at her, to scream, “How dare you make him care for you more than for me?”

He is not unhappy with her. He submits to her embraces—reluctantly, but that is not unusual for a boy of his age. He still calls her Mother. But when she sees him go to Osha with a thorn in his finger she thinks that her heart might break.

There is nothing to do but to give him time—to show him that she loves him and cares for him and to hope that he’ll come to do the same for her—but it is hard. She knew when the war ended that things would still be hard, but she didn’t expect anything like this. This is too much, she thinks, and too long after things should have been over. She wants it to stop.

 

The six of them are gathered together one evening. Robb, done with the duties of the day, reclines, explaining the finer points of balancing a sword to Bran, who is beginning to learn fighting on horseback. “That’s all wrong,” says Arya, who has her feet up on a chair, heedless of the many times that she’s been told not to do this. “You’re telling him all wrong.”

“I’d think I would know better than you would, Arya,” Robb says.

“And who taught you that, I’d like to know?” Arya asks. “Because I learned from the best.” Catelyn bites her lip to hide a smile.

Rickon yawns, and Sansa looks up from her tapestry work. “Should I tell you a story before you go to bed, Rickon?”

“Yes,” Rickon says eagerly.

“That’s an excellent idea,” Catelyn says, holding out her arms to Rickon. He climbs into her lap with a smile, and she is more grateful than she can say.

As Sansa spins a tale and Rickon listen and the swordsmen debate on the other side of the room, Catelyn smiles to herself. They are all together now. She will never stop missing Ned, but she sees him every day. When Robb makes decisions or when Sansa is kind to her younger siblings. In every line of Arya’s face. In the way Bran looks thoughtful and in something about Rickon’s eyes.

“And they lived happily ever after,” Sansa says. It is not that simple, they all know. And yet she thinks that they may.


	2. Yours and Only Yours (Cersei/Jaime)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cersei and Jaime come to a decision about their relationship. Vaguely AU.

When she is first married, they are careful. It is not difficult; they have been careful for years, one way or the other. They have had to be secret (and oh, how he hates having to be secret), to make sure that they were not found out, to make sure that he did not get his unmarried sister with child. And now that she is married, they keep up the charade. They fuck in secret while Robert is drunk or away. They time things so as not to risk making bastards; he comes to know her cycles almost as well as she does, to know when he needs to please her with hands or mouth (because every moment counts too much; he cannot forgo touching her altogether).

One night, he returns to King’s Landing from escorting Prince Renly to Storm’s End; Robert is gone on a hunting trip, and he goes to Cersei’s chambers eagerly. She sits there on the bed, and it strikes him briefly that there is something off about her, but he brushes it aside as he goes to embrace her. “I’ve missed you.”

He moves to slide a hand beneath her skirts, but she stops him. “Jaime, we need to talk.”

“We can talk later,” he says easily, trailing fingers up her thighs. “Gods, I’ve missed you.”

“No, we cannot talk later, Jaime!” she snaps, smacking his hand away. “I’m with child.”

But we were careful, he thinks. “Is it—? Did we—?”

“It’s not yours, Jaime. It’s Robert’s.” She rises from the bed and begins to pace. “Putting a babe in every other woman in the Seven Kingdoms wasn’t enough for him. I could just kill him! I don’t want his child, Jaime. I don’t want it.” Her voice is growing shrill in a way that he knows she’d never let anyone else hear, and when he moves to put an arm around her, she pushes him away again. “I don’t want it. I _won’t_ have it. Jaime, you’ve got to help me.”

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“You’ve got to help me get rid of it,” Cersei says. Now she is the one to pull him close, to kiss him desperately. “Please, Jaime. I don’t know what I’ll do.”

And he helps her because he loves her. It is easy enough to hide the trail, to arrange to get the herbs. She mixes the tea herself, though, and he sits with her while she drinks it. He can tell when the pain begins by the way she sucks in her breath, but she grits her teeth against it, even twists her mouth into a semblance of a smile. His sister is brave. He puts comforting arms around her, rubs her back and belly, helps her into bed when all is done. And she whispers, “Thank you,” and kisses him.

They wait a week before bedding again, making sure she heals. When he goes to her chambers, he knows that she’s at a time in her cycle when their coupling might put another babe in her belly, and he slides his hand and later his mouth between her thighs, working to give her pleasure that way. But when he feels her trembling on the bed, when he can tell she’s very, very close, she whispers, “Wait, Jaime. I want you in me.”

He stops. “Now?” he asks. “Isn’t it—?”

“It is,” she says, sitting up. “But I have to make heirs, and I won’t have Robert’s brats. Help me again, Jaime. I want to have _your_ babes. I don’t want to bed any other man ever again. Our babes would be perfect. Please, Jaime.” Her eyes are shining; he can’t remember ever seeing her look quite so beautiful. “Let’s make a child together.”

“You’re certain?” he asks, even as he is moving to straddle her.

“Completely certain,” she says. And then their bodies meet.


	3. Homage (Cersei/Jaime)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She does not like to kneel before men.

She does not like to kneel before men. If she had her way, if she ran things, they’d all be kneeling before her; she would be the one to decide what she does. But she does not run things, and she’s been forced to kneel, to do as men command, since she was a child. Before her father, who gave her in marriage with less care for her well-being than one might show in selling a horse. Before the drunken lout who calls her his wife.

There is only one man before whom she will willingly kneel, and then the kneeling is quite literal. But Jaime is not like other men to her; he is a part of her that happens to be male. And when she kneels in front of him—quickly, quickly, always quickly, it’s always a risk, she knows that and cares even if he does not, and yet she cannot stop—kneels and unlaces his breeches and takes the length of him into her mouth to lick and suck, she does not feel forced into anything. Her brother’s eyes are never cold when she sucks him, never uncaring; he looks at her with love and want, strokes his hands through her hair, moans her name. And when he has finished, he kneels for her too, presses his mouth in between her thighs and licks and kisses her clit until she could drown in bliss, until she is shaking, until she has to stuff her own hand into her mouth to keep from crying his name loud enough to bring everyone in the keep down on them. She truly wants to pleasure him, and she knows that he enjoys pleasing her every bit as much, and the years have made them both skilled at it. He knows the spots that reduce her to a wreck; she knows the touches that make him lose control.

That is why it is all right to kneel for him—because they are and always have been a pair. Because what she does for him he will do for her. Because he fathered her children and she birthed his. Because his body and mind are the only ones she knows as well as her own.

And because when she is kneeling before him with his cock in her mouth, making him come apart completely, she feels powerful. That is wonderful too.


	4. Left Unwritten (Joanna)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When writing to Tywin, Joanna is uncertain whether to share some troubling news.

She sat down to write a letter to her husband. It was easy enough to begin—she responded to the news of King’s Landing that his last raven had brought, asked after his well-being and the doings at court. Then she moved on to her own news. Tywin would want to know that the household was running smoothly, and she reassured him on that count. She was writing of some small matters to do with the servants when the thought pushed itself into her mind. “The servants,” she thought. “I’d better tell him.” _I had to dismiss a maid_ , she wrote, _because_ …

She stopped then and thought. It would be easy enough to make up an excuse—there were a hundred reasons that one might need to let a servant go—and yet she didn’t feel right lying to Tywin. It wasn’t as though she believed that there could be no secrets between a husband and a wife; a few small secrets, Joanna firmly believed, were healthy. But this wouldn’t be a small secret. The children were his as much as hers, and perhaps he had the right to know. Still, there was a part of her that didn’t want to tell him.

He would punish them, she told herself, and what would that serve? Jaime and Cersei were only seven, surely too young to have understood that they were doing something terribly wrong. They understood now, she was certain; they had to after her reaction. She’d lost her head a bit when she and the maid had come into the room and seen them—they’d been touching each other and good gods, she’d known that children sometimes played at kissing but not like that and not with their own siblings! She had shrieked, had screamed at them to stop that, to get off each other, to get off each other right now, and they’d obeyed, looking rather frightened. She’d forced herself to calm down then and quickly decided how to handle things. She’d dismissed the maid at once, told the children in no uncertain terms that they would be moving bedchambers, and explained to them that they’d been doing something terribly, terribly wrong and that they were never to do it again.

They’d nodded, said, “Yes, Mother,”—together, of course, they were always together, she’d never thought that their togetherness might become too much—and seemed to understand. She had told them that if they ever did it again she would have to tell their father, but they wouldn’t do it again. They understood now, she was almost certain, and in any case she had taken her precautions. And if it only happened once it wasn’t truly a problem—was it?—and she didn’t need to tell Tywin…

_I had to dismiss a maid_ , she wrote, _because she was careless with the cleaning. The children are well, and so am I. Yesterday I felt the babe quicken. I am looking forward to having you home soon, my love._


	5. The Feast (Starks)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Starks host a feast at Winterfell.

“Cat!” Catelyn Stark heard her husband’s voice calling.

“I’m in the solar, Ned,” she called back, placing the book of household accounts to the side and looking up.

Ned appeared in the doorway. “We’ve just had a raven,” he said, taking a seat beside her. “The Umbers will be here in a fortnight’s time; the Greatjon and I need to discuss matters of trade. They’ll be staying a week.”

“How many men is he bringing?” Catelyn asked.

“They’ll be eight in all,” said Ned. “The Greatjon, his eldest son, and some men of his household.”

“And I suppose we’ll feast them on the first night?” said Catelyn.

“That’s what I thought,” said Ned. “Have the children all got clothes? Bran’s more than old enough to attend now.”

“Oh, yes, they’ve all got very nice clothes,” said Catelyn. “I’ll speak to the servants right away about bedchambers and about the feast.” She smiled. “You can trust me.”

Ned kissed her cheek. “I know I can.”

 

A fortnight later, Catelyn was hurrying to prepare for the arrival of the Umbers and their party. She had decided to make sure that the children were ready before attending to herself.

She looked into Bran’s room first. Robb, already dressed, was there assisting Bran, who was struggling with the fastenings of his doublet. Catelyn smiled; it always pleased her to see her children helping each other. “The Umbers will be here soon,” she said, “so make certain you’re ready. Don’t forget to brush your hair. And Bran, make sure you thank Robb for his help.”

“I already did!” Bran said indignantly.

“And now you’re finished,” said Robb, helping Bran with the last fastening.

“Well, I can see that I needn’t worry about you two,” Catelyn said. “I’m going to see to the girls. Finish up and go downstairs.”

She passed into her daughters’ bedchamber. Both girls were dressed, Catelyn was pleased to see; Sansa was brushing her hair, while Arya was lacing up a boot. Her other foot, already booted, was placed atop the bed. “Arya, no boots on the bed,” Catelyn said. Arya frowned, but she did as she was told.

“Mother, could you help me?” Sansa asked. “I’d like to braid my hair up.”

“Of course I could,” Catelyn said, taking the brush from her daughter and sitting down beside her on the bed. Beginning to brush and braid, she asked, “Are you girls excited for the feast?”

“Oh, yes,” said Sansa, smoothing the folds of her light blue gown.

“I suppose,” said Arya, making a face.

Catelyn had to laugh. “Arya, what is that face? I’m sure we’ll all have a good time.”

“It’s going to go on for hours,” said Arya, “and my gown is itchy. I don’t like itchy gowns.”

“She’s impossible, Mother,” Sansa said loftily.

There was no denying that Arya could be a bit difficult about these matters, but Catelyn still frowned. “Hush, Sansa. That’s not a very nice thing to say about your sister.” She ran the brush through Sansa’s hair one last time. “And that’s finished. You look very pretty, sweetling.”

“Thank you, Mother,” Sansa said, twirling so that her skirt swirled around her and leaving the room.

Catelyn turned to Arya. “Would you like me to braid your hair up too?”

Arya considered. “Not up. Down. Please.” Catelyn complied with Arya’s request, arranging her dark hair into one long braid down her back.

“I’m sorry your gown itches you, Arya,” she said as she finished, “but I know you’ll make us proud tonight if you try. And the gown does suit you very well, you know.” Arya made another face. “That expression doesn’t suit you nearly as well as the gown does.” Arya made a still more terrible face. “Suppose you try smiling instead? You do have a beautiful smile.” She gave Arya a smile of her own as she spoke, and, as she’d hoped, Arya dropped her scowl and began to smile as well. Catelyn gave her a quick kiss. “Go downstairs and join your brothers and sister. I’ll be there soon.”

Catelyn went to her own bedchamber to put on her gown for the evening. As she was almost finished lacing up its bodice, she heard a sound from the next room—the cry that meant that Rickon was hungry. Smiling ruefully to herself—it always seemed to happen this way—she hurried to him, unlacing as she went.

“Hungry?” she murmured, picking up her babe and settling him against her chest. Rickon’s mouth found her breast, and he began to suck. “We’re having a feast with the Umbers and their men tonight,” she continued softly, stroking the light fuzz of his hair. “I hope you’ll sleep nicely, sweetling.” Rickon seemed to be doing his best to comply. After sucking for a while, he dropped off to sleep in her arms. Catelyn placed him gently in his cradle, re-laced her gown, and returned to her bedchamber. She was putting the last touches to her hair when Ned appeared.

“How do I look?” she asked.

“Perfect.” Ned smiled and brushed a few loose strands of hair back from her face. “I married the most beautiful woman in all seven kingdoms.”

Catelyn flushed happily. Even after thirteen years of marriage, Ned’s compliments didn’t please her any less—not when he looked at her so lovingly as he spoke, not when she could tell that he meant every word. “And I married the sweetest man,” she said, leaning in to kiss him. “Shall we go down to greet our guests, Lord Stark?”

“Indeed, my lady.” Ned offered her his arm. She took it with a smile, and they headed down the stairs and into the courtyard. The children were already there, and Catelyn gave them all a last look as she and Ned approached. Yes, they would do nicely.

“Don’t we make a handsome family?” Ned said. “Lord Umber should be here any moment. You children remember him, don’t you?”

“Yes,” said Robb, Sansa, and Arya.

“No,” said Bran.

Ned smiled and ruffled Bran’s hair. “We’ll be sure to introduce you.”

“I think I see their horses!” Arya cried, pointing across the yard. Sure enough, Arya was right. A group of men on horseback was rapidly approaching Winterfell. They soon arrived in the courtyard, and their leader, Jon Umber, vaulted down from his horse and seized Ned’s arm.

“Lord Stark!” he said warmly. “Wonderful to see you!”

“Wonderful to see you as well, Lord Umber,” said Ned. “How was the journey?”

“Not half bad,” said the Greatjon. “No trouble at all. Lady Stark!” He turned to kiss Catelyn’s hand. “Lovely as ever. And the extraordinary Stark children. Who is who?”

“This is Robb,” said Ned.

The Greatjon laid a hand on Robb’s shoulder. “Yes, Robb. Good to see you.”

“And this is Sansa,” said Ned. Sansa swept a perfect curtsey. “And this is Arya.” Arya looked as though she were concentrating very hard, but her curtsey turned out quite nicely as well. “And this is Bran.”

“Well met, all,” said the Greatjon. “And you’ve just had another, haven’t you?”

“Rickon,” Catelyn said. “He’s nearly a year. He’s sleeping now.”

“Splendid!” said the Greatjon. “And you know my son, Jon.” The boy, called the Smalljon, was a few years older than Robb.

“You must all be tired after the journey,” Catelyn said. “Your chambers have been prepared, and we’ll be dining soon.”

“Many thanks,” the Greatjon said cheerfully.

A bit later, they were all assembled in Winterfell’s great hall, eating and talking. Things were going well; there was plenty of food, and the Greatjon was always an entertaining conversationalist, even if he was slightly too given to telling long tales. Catelyn periodically glanced at the children as she listened, but they all seemed to be behaving themselves. She was pleased.

As the evening wore on, however, she noticed Bran yawning more often than not and decided that he really ought to go to sleep. Rising from her place, she moved along the table to where the children were sitting. “Bran, it’s time you were in bed.”

“No, it’s not!” Bran protested. The great gape that followed his words rather spoiled the effect.

“Oh, yes, it is,” said Catelyn. She turned to her younger daughter, who looked almost asleep herself. “Arya’s going to go to bed too, aren’t you, Arya?” The easiest way to get Bran to do something was often to suggest that he follow the example of one of his older siblings.

Arya yawned as well. “All right.”

Getting the two out of the hall, however, proved to be more of a challenge. Both children were almost too sleepy to walk, and they felt like dead weights at the end of her arms as she tried to lead them from the table. Fortunately, Ned appeared at her side; he must have seen her predicament. “Do you need some help?” he asked.

“That would be lovely,” said Catelyn. Ned smiled and scooped Arya up onto one hip. Catelyn did the same with Bran.

Robb, who was watching the proceedings, asked, “Father, am I the lord here until you get back?”

Ned laughed. “I suppose so. Don’t let things get out of hand.”

“I won’t,” Robb said seriously. Catelyn smiled to herself as she and Ned left the hall and began to climb the stairs.

“Things seem to be going well,” she said.

Ned nodded. “Jon Umber is a good man. We’ll never have any trouble with him.”

Once she and Ned had settled the two tired children in their rooms, Catelyn helped them out of their good clothes and into sleeping shifts. She placed Bran in bed with a quick kiss to his forehead and unwound Arya’s braid before doing the same for her. After glancing in on Rickon and giving him a quick feeding, she followed Ned back downstairs.

The feast went on for a while longer, until the older guests grew tired as well and decided to retire. Robb and Sansa were yawning too by this point, although they were more skilled at hiding it. Robb went off to his bedchamber, while Catelyn lit a candle and supervised as Sansa brushed her hair for sleep. “Did you have a good time at the feast?” she asked, whispering so as not to wake Arya.

“Yes, Mother,” said Sansa. “I love feasts. Everyone always tells such wonderful tales.” She put down the brush and crawled under the bedcovers. “Goodnight, Mother.”

“Goodnight, my sweet Sansa.” Catelyn blew out the candle and went out into the hall.

Ned was there as well, having just finished saying good night to all their guests. “A successful evening, my love,” he said.

“Indeed,” Catelyn said.

“But finished at last,” Ned continued, “and now everyone’s in bed.”

Catelyn laid a hand on his arm. “Not everyone.”

The look on Ned’s face made it very clear that he understood her meaning. “Would you like to be carried too?”

Catelyn smiled and wrapped her arms securely around him. “I wouldn’t mind.”

Ned bent to kiss her. Then he swept her up into his arms and bore her off to their bedchamber.


	6. Pretending (Loras, Margaery)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loras and Margaery both understand what it's like to pretend.

The night that the betrothal was sealed, Loras heard the door to his bedchamber open. “It’s me,” whispered a familiar voice. “Can I come in for a moment?”

“Of course.” Loras lit a candle as his younger sister made her way across the room and perched at the foot of his bed.

“I’m sorry,” Margaery said, after a brief silence.

Loras shrugged. “You don’t have to be. You didn’t ask for this.”

“I know,” Margaery said, “but I’m still sorry.”

“At least I’ll…I’ll still be with him,” Loras said. “If he has to marry someone, I’m glad it’s you. You understand.” He tried to smile at Margaery, not wanting her to think he was angry at her. Margaery was, in fact, one of the few people at whom he was not angry at the moment. He was angry at his father, who’d insisted on all this.  He was angry at Renly, who seemed only to care about cementing this alliance, no matter what he needed to do. But he wasn’t angry at Margaery. This hadn’t been her choice.

“I do understand,” said Margaery. “I really do. I won’t come between you any more than I can help.” She was silent again. “Loras, I…how did you know?

“Know what?” Loras asked.

“That you…that you loved other men.”

“Oh.” Loras thought back. This wasn’t something he talked about much; almost no one knew about him and Renly, but he’d known that he could trust Margaery. “I didn’t truly know at first,” he said. “The other boys would always talk about girls they wanted to have, and I’d make things up because I could never think of any. I remember, once, Horas and Hobber dared me to kiss a serving maid, and I did, but it wasn’t exciting at all. But I just thought she wasn’t the right girl. But then there was this knight.” He remembered so clearly how the man had looked. “We were all visiting King’s Landing—you were there too, it was the first time Father brought you—at court, and I saw him training. I don’t even know who he was. Some dark man, tall and slight, but you could tell he was strong. And I just looked at him and I knew that was what it must be like for the other boys with girls. Because I just wanted him to touch me.”

Margaery sat at the bottom of the bed, hugging her knees. “It was like that for me too.”

Loras frowned. “What was like that?”

“At Cider Hall,” said Margaery, “when I went last spring with Garlan and Leonette. I knew she didn’t mean anything by it—she’s just affectionate—but Lysette Fossoway would kiss me all the time, and I…I liked it. I wished she’d do it even more and I never wanted to come home and then I thought that it…that that must be why when Elinor and Megga and Alla talked about men, I could say who I thought was handsome but, well, what you said. It wasn’t exciting.” She flushed.

Loras was astonished. “Margaery, you…you love other women?”

Margaery nodded. “I do.” And, as Loras wondered what to say, she began to laugh. “What a pair we are, Loras. And—oh gods—what a marriage it’s going to be!”

Loras couldn’t help but laugh with her. “I wouldn’t have though it,” he said, when their laughter ceased. “You’ve always seemed—well—as silly about men as any other girl.”

She shook her head. “I’m good at pretending, that’s all. And I’ll keep pretending, I suppose. I’ll be wedded and bedded, if I must, and just…just pretend. You must know what it’s like.”

“I do,” Loras said. Awful, he might have added. Terrible. But he could tell from the way that Margaery’s face had turned serious that she knew this as well as he did. So he hugged his younger sister instead, glad to have one person who understood.


End file.
